


catch up

by midnightweeds



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Dark, Deception, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, Long Shot, Obsession, One Shot, Polyjuice Potion, Prisoner of War, Violence, War, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-17 12:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightweeds/pseuds/midnightweeds
Summary: If his teeth sunk into the tender flesh of her throat-Well, he didn’t know. And it was only the beginning, anyway.this is a very, very long one shot





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cecelia2046](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cecelia2046/gifts).



> this is quasi-dark. it flirts with potentially triggering themes but never quite gets there.   
>    
>  **read with care**   
>    
>  thanks to cece2046 for the prompt, and thanks to sissannis for betaing.

Scabior groaned, sitting down on the edge of his bed tiredly. Dawn streamed through his window, the sun warming his room deceptively, and he closed his eyes, falling back on his comforter. Failure weighed heavily on his chest, exhausting his body, but he had no real time to catch up on sleep. Or life. He could hardly even get a decent fuck in these days, the little cunt of a witch in his basement taking up too much of his time and mind.

He felt the tingle of an elf passing through his wards before a squeaky voice asked, "Master?"

"What?" He hissed, twisting his wand between his fingers.

"Dolohov's mission was a failure," Alley explained.

He was sure the little thing was wringing its hands and fought the urge to kick it out of anger and disgust. Instead he asked, "And?"

"The Dark Lord requires your presence upon his return from the Ministry. You and...hers.

"While...while the Dark Lord's forces were occupied, Grindelwald raided two prisons. We no longer have the Weasley. Among others."

"Leave," he demanded, rubbing his eyes with the swells of his palms.

He knew the Dark Lord wouldn't return for a few hours at worst, but he was no closer to a lead on Dumbledore's secret army then he had been the day he'd captured her.

Sitting up, he pressed his wand to his head, half considering what it would be like if he ended his own life. It was increasingly worth less and less. At the last second, he tossed his wand next to him and sat up, pulling the pink scarf he'd stolen from his neck. The floral scent that had clung to it had long faded, smelling more like dirt, sweat, and blood than he cared to admit.

As he made his way to his bathroom, he tossed it into his hamper to be washed, his mind going back to the witch once he was finally stood under the showerhead.

Scabior had never wanted a prisoner. He was sure the Dark Lord had shoved the little swot off on him because he'd been looking for a reason to kill him, and they'd all been sure he'd fail, anyway. Still, it was hard to believe this was  _it_. His last shower. His last morning. It was sick, really, that it was a filthy little mudblood who'd bring about his downfall. After he'd sold his damned soul to the cause.

It was then that he realized he had his cock in his hand, fist pumping methodically over his shaft.

"Fucking bitch," he murmured, remembering the dark grin she'd given him when they realized they were stuck together. He'd hardly been sure who she was until she opened her pouty little know-it-all mouth and he'd had literal war flashbacks to Draco-sodding-Malfoy panting over her.

He groaned, feeling himself twitch in his hold. He hated it, but as his balls tightened, all he could think about was the way her eyes shined with mirth every time she feed him a lie, her face bruised but nowhere near broken.

His hands ached to hurt her, to make her feel something for all the failure she'd caused him. For the  _life_ that she'd caused him. Briefly, he wondered if the Dark Lord would kill him first, allowing her to watch. It seemed like something the 'new' him would enjoy. Scabior's final shame.

His fist pumped harder, his free hand gripping his balls as he leaned against the wall of his shower. He heard her laugh in his head, echoing in the same way it did in his stone basement, and hated himself when he felt himself cum because of it, the feeling of it simultaneously warming and numbing his body. His mind going blank with satisfaction.

"Fucking Hermione," he breathed, blinking blearily. He leaned toward the water, watching as the evidence of his arousal -of the first time he'd cum in too long- washed off of his hand and down the drain. " _Fuck."_

 

* * *

 

"Out," Scabior demanded, opening the iron door of her prison.

The wolf with her growled at the command, his eyes cutting in Scabior's direction for only a moment before looking back at Hermione. He had her pinned to her cot, forearm heavy against her throat.

"What did I tell you about this shit?" Scabior questioned boredly. He'd stopped anything sexual from happening, but that hadn't stopped them from beating or torturing the shit out of her. Nor had it stopped the younger werewolves from rutting against her like second and third-years.

"I don't know why you care."

If he were being honest with himself, Scabior was none too certain, either. It didn't matter, anyway. She was  _his_.

"Out," he demanded again. "Now."

The sigh she gave when he lifted his arm vibrated through Scabior annoyingly. She sat up as the wolf left, swinging her legs over the side of her cot. He ignored the way she rubbed her throat; it and her body were covered in far more bruises that she'd had when he left a few days ago.

 _Good_ , he thought.  _Bitch_.

She gave a soft moan that caused both Scabior and the wolf to look at her. "I thought I wouldn't see you again, Scabior."

"Now," he repeated, magic sparking. The wolf scampered away, his own wand tight in his grip.

When they were alone, she offered him a grin, her bruised mouth tugging mischievously.

"You, too. Out."

Despite her appearance, she jumped up, hands at her sides as she approached the opening.

"Your friends have kept me great company, you know. You'll have to thank them for me. Perhaps a fruit cake is in order."

He half led her to a table on the other side of the room. They'd done it enough for her to know the procedure.

"I suppose they were hoping to tell me about my friends. When you found them." She held her arms out to be shackled to the table.

He ignored the grin in her voice. The warmth of her skin when his fingers brushed hers.

"We both know the missions were unsuccessful."

"That was a good one, wasn't it? I nearly believed myself." She sat down, crossing her knees as she sat back. She rubbed the skin of her wrists, pushing a layer of dirt around.

"You're filthy," he commented, tapping his wand against his thigh. After a moment, he casted a  _scourgify_ , smirking at the way she shivered at the feel of his magic.

"Thank you," she told him, her voice quiet. She was still rubbing at her skin as though there were still grime there. "They make me feel quite disgusting."

He blinked, surprised at the admission. Swallowing thickly, he remembered the way his body relaxed at the sound of her laugh. He rolled his shoulders at the thought.

"Happy Birthday, Scabior."

He scowled.

"Thirty missions- failed. Thirty years- gone. Are you proud?"

He tapped his wand against the tabletop. "You planned this?"

"No. It just worked out spectacularly."

He resisted cursing her by the skin of his teeth. "Granger."

"I expected to be dead by now, Scabior. There is no sense of urgency. I'm on borrowed time."

"How many more of these do you have?" He asked tiredly.

"Seven pretty good -two shitty ones. I'm quite keen on thirty-seven. I'd appreciate accompanying you on that one."

"Oh? Would you?"

She nodded enthusiastically.

He slammed his palm against the table, ignoring the slow smile that spread across her face. "You and I will be dead before the next sunrise.

"Your little stunt got 30 of our men killed. Grindelwald-"

"Grindelwald?" she questioned, curiosity peeking in her voice.

"Unbelievable." He got up, twirling his wand between his fingers. "We're going to  _die_."

"Do you think that I 'enjoy' life here? I'd rather be dead than live another  _second_  here."

He stared out a small window. "This is not the worst place you could be."

"Where did he attack?" She questioned.

He looked over at her to see that she was staring at the table, hands flat. "Nearby town."

She bit her lip, brow furrowed. Scabior watched her expectantly, waiting for a sign of something more. Something that could save their lives.

After a moment, she said, "12 Grimmauld Place. Islington, London. Former safehouse."

"Granger-"

"Left to Harry after the death of his godfather. I cannot guarantee people will be there, but you will find...other things.

"I've given you no reason to trust me- but I've none to trust you, either. I'm giving you this...because death appears to frighten you. And it will buy you another day or two, at least.

"Though, if Grindelwald is near...Merlin help us."

"What do you know?"

She met his gaze. No smirk. No amusement. No taunt. Just her eyes on his. He noticed a vessel in hers had broken, the skin around it tinged yellow.

"More than you ever will."

 

* * *

 

_12 Grimmauld Place. Ilsington, London. Left to Potter by Sirius Black. Former safehouse._

 

* * *

 

"Looks like we die another day."

Scabior stared at her, somewhere between disbelief and awe. Despite himself, he understood Draco's obsession with her. It sickened him.

"I received no beatings. No curses. No visits. From baby wolves." Her face ticked. "Did you enjoy yourself, too, Scabior? With some long legged German witch?"

"No."

"Wizard?"

He summoned a chair and sat down. "My thoughts are focused, Granger."

"On me?" She grinned, half laughing. "I'm flattered, of course. Is Scabior your first or last name?" Her voice was a taunt.

He shifted, but said nothing, opting to stare at her instead.

"Hermione Scabior." She frowned. "It's  _alright_."

"Enough."

"I agree. It's ghastly."

He summoned a quill and parchment, conjuring a desk for her to write on. "If you want to live, you need to offer me more."

"You mean I haven't exhausted my usefulness, yet?" She inquired, putting quill to parchment. "Any news from either camp?"

"The DA is on the defensive. Numerang is quiet."

"Not for long," she told him softly. "Ask around."

He watched her in surprise, waiting for more. But, she said nothing more on the subject as she finished her false reports.

"I've put a star next to the one I'd like to join you on," she told him, sliding the list to him.

He barked out a laugh.

"Full moon is soon."

"Is it?" He questioned, reading it over. He glanced up at her as she shrugged.

"Should I expect those pups again?"

"No."

She rolled her tongue in her mouth. "Should I expect you?"

He tapped his wand on his thigh. "I'm not a wolf."

"Your mother was. And so was hers."

He folded the parchment and slipped it into the breast pocket of his robe as he stood up.

"That's why they stuck you with Greyback. They're waiting for a phenomena."

He vanished the desk and chair as he left her cage.

"I know everything about you, Scabior."

"You don't know my name."

She ignored him. "Do you know about me, too?"


	2. Chapter 2

"How  _is_  Miss Granger?" The Dark Lord questioned, looking expectantly at Scabior.

Scabior set his teacup down. "Fine."

"I meant for you, Scabior," he commented with a chuckled.

The wizard blinked, swallowing the lump in his throat. Was the Dark Lord-

"I...wouldn't know, my Lord."

"That's a shame." The Dark Lord looked over his nails. "She is quite intelligent, from what I have been told. If it weren't for her blood, I'd suggest young Malfoy take her for his own."

"I'm sure he'd enjoy that."

The Dark Lord chuckled heartily, the sound like causing his ears to feel as though they were bleeding."Yes, well," he said after a moment. " With your  _sensitive_  history...She is a witch, after all."

"Mr Lord?" Scabior questioned, but the Dark Lord turned to the person on his left.

To Lucius Malfoy. It was only then that he noticed who he was at the table with. The Lestranges, the Carrows. Greyback -the monster he answered to- was nowhere in sight, but he was sitting to the left of the Dark Lord as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

He downed the rest of his tea, fearing for his life. Though it was beyond him if it was over the thought dying tomorrow or living longer then today.

 

* * *

 

"Don't you look peachy," Hermione commented, smiling at him from her cot. Her mouth was bloody, chest grey with sweat and grime.

It'd been a week since he's last seen her, her taunt filling his mind every time he took himself in his hand. Her quiet sighs and moans even echoed in his head, louder than the witches he'd finally taken to bed. It sickened him to no end.

"I hear we're in favor," she continued, dark eyes following him as he walked into her cage.

He leaned against a stone wall, watching her coolly.

"It appears we both got fucked."

He bristled at her words, the coldness of them chilling him to the bone.

"How fortunate of us."

He twirled his wand in between his fingers, watching as her eyes tracked the motion.

"I always know its you when you do that."

"Someone pretends to be me?"

She only stared at him. As though he should have known. Scabior felt slightly disgusted that others had masqueraded as him, but he didn't allow himself to grow distracted by it.

Her eye was still red with blood. Bruises still littered her body in shades of yellow, green, purple, and blue. The colors played across her skin as though they belonged there, his eyes lingering on them hungrily.

He summoned a chair, sitting in front of her. "Consider this a medical procedure," he told her before lifting his wand and murmuring the spells he's spent the last few days learning.

She sat perfectly still as he went over vitals, checking her for any disease or infection. When he was satisfied, he met her gaze, searching her eyes from something more. But he was used to this now. She'd grown increasingly manic in her time with him, the silence and vacancy that followed sometimes a welcome change. At least then he know he wasn't being lied to.

"I've been instructed to check your head," he told her just before sealing himself off.

He'd never searched her mind, finding that the experience of invading someone's thoughts left him feeling unclean, but it was the Dark Lord's will, and he was his servant.

As he entered, he instantly realized that he would not last long. Despite her suddenly sullen appearance, her mind was a loud, jumbled mess. There was no order to her thoughts. No ability to make sense of where fantasy and reality diverged. He felt his stomach tightening as he continued further, searching for anything that would suggest why she would want to accompany him on a mission.

Escaping aside.

When he could find nothing more than loud, cackling amusement, he pulled himself out, the both of them gasping for air as though they'd been held under. Someone had made a right mess of her mind. He was no longer surprised that the missions she offered them were a mass of neverending lies, though he was surprised that she was capable of seeming so lucid.

He felt  _bad_.

She recovered before him, accustomed to the invasion. "Am I clean enough for you?"

He felt  _disgusted_.

"Number 37," he told her when he'd caught his breath. "Why do you want to go?"

"I miss the fresh air," she told him. "And I'd love to feel the ocean on my face."

He stood up, tagging his wand against his thigh. "You were right to say we're in favor."

She said nothing more to him, and Scabior was left to wonder over the last few weeks of his life. In just a few days time, a Mudblood prisoner-  _his_  Mudblood prisoner- would be accompanying him on what was sure to be another sham of a mission.

But the Dark Lord had been impressed by the half-truths within her last confession. And he was intrigued. So, he would take her and her fragmented mind with him to Wales and he would do his best not to pitch them both off the edge of cliff in the process.

As he climbed the steps out of the cellar, he heard her say, "When the cat's away, the mice always come out to play."

It didn't make his anti-suicide pep talk any more assuring.

* * *

 

Later that evening, he ventured back into the basement, his wand tucked securely into his trouser pocket. He kept his mask on as he watched her sleep, his Death Eater robes still smokey from the revel, and as her eyes popped open, he was sure she knew someone was there.

He pulled his arm into the body of his robe, cupping his stiffening cock in palm his hand.

She did not move. She barely even breathed, her chest shaking beneath the thin sheet she slept under. He could practically taste her fear in the air, the feel of it rolling over him sweetly. He licked his lips, inhaling deeply as he pressed himself into his fist.

After a moment, she turned her head, looking over at him. Her deer-like eyes shined in the darkness, but he watched as the fear in them shifted, however slightly.

"You've already been here," she told him, her voice quiet.

His eyes fell closed, the fantasy playing out against his lids.

He wanted to hear his name on her lips, breathy and low and needy with desire. He wanted to feel her body beneath his: the curve of her bum shaping to his hips; her thighs warm and full against his; the weight of her breasts in his palms as he possessed her. He imaged the dip of her spine and the arch of her back, how his hands would look and feel against skin he knew would be soft and supple beneath his touch. He wanted to taste her: the salty sweat from her throat; the sweet center between her thighs; the both of them sour on her tongue as he held her to him, their bodies one.  _His._

She already knew him, however clinically and unfortunately. It would only take a moment for her to realize it was him, truly him, and Scabior was certain she would submit. The game they'd played since her capture was unlike any other. She consumed him like no other.

And it made him sick to his stomach.

He resisted the urge to groan, pressing into the warmth of his palm. But, he was interested in more than he could give himself.

 _I know everything about you, Scabior._  His felt his cock throbbing. Positively aching.  _Do you know about me, too?_

God- how he wanted to.

 

* * *

 

"I hear Granger passed."

Scabior didn't look up at Draco. "She's a nutcase."

"Is she?" Draco questioned, his tone showing that he wasn't convinced.

Scabior sighed, looking up from his map. "What do you want, Malfoy? I can't do anything about your hard on for the witch. Unless you'd like a strand of hair."

"Why would you offer me that?" He questioned, face ticking disgustedly. "Are you offering your hair to others?"

"I'm not offering anyone anything." He looked back at his map, drawing his wand across a secondary course.

"That's disgusting."

"Yeah," Scabior agreed. "Ask your father about it."

The blond mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like 'scum,' but Scabior couldn't be certain.

"A nutcase," Draco finally said, observing his nails. "You know, of course, Harry Potter trained with Severus Snape to become an Occulms."

It was news to Scabior.

"Know-It-All Granger undoubtedly received  _some_  sort of training, don't you think?"

Draco raised his brow as Scabior watched him, his thin face tired from the war. It dawned on Scabior that he and the witch were only a few years out of Hogwarts. Twenty-two at the oldest. This was no way for them -for  _anyone_ \- to live.

"Snape was considered one of the greatest. Granger is...talented beyond measure."

"What are you suggesting, Draco? That her fucked up mind is a front?"

"Not everything is what it seems."

"Right," Scabior dutifully returned his focus to his work, more annoyed with Draco's interruption than anything else.

"Ask around," Draco suggested.

He froze, looking up at the blond, who appeared to be absolutely unfazed.

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

 

* * *

 

"Grin," he heard her murmur, the affection in her voice causing his body to tense.

Scabior felt his mind go blank. She hadn't given them any information on Dumbledore's secret army because she didn't  _know_  anything about it. He felt the desire to strike her, but stronger yet he felt the urge to hurt those who had tortured her into the person she was now.

Her eyes were wide when he looked over at her, her hand lifting out for the old wizard, and Scabior felt sick to his stomach.  _Set up_  his mind told him, sparks instantly flying from his wand to alert the others that they needed to leave.

Hermione broke away in a sprint, never once looking back at him. Scabior hesitated a moment, watching her run toward a wizard who had yet to even notice her.

"Grin!" She yelled over the fight.

The old wizard looked over in a panic, and Scabior felt his feet pounding against the earth as he ran after her. He felt his team evaporating, one by one the attention of Grindelwald's men shifting to Hermione. He realized that he didn't have enough time.

But, she was his. And the spell fell from his lips before he even realized, immobolizing her. He caught her limp body, turning his back on the spell hurtling toward them from Grindelwald's wand. It burned through his clothes, singing his skin painfully. He felt his eyesight go black, grip tightening around her.

He realized she was crying, body shaking in his hold, just before the swell of apparation engulfed them and the world vanished.

If his teeth sunk into the tender flesh of her throat-

Well, he didn't know. And it was only the beginning, anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh, Master," he heard his elf say, before the sound of tears wrecking his little body filled the air.

Scabior grimaced, attempting to sit up.

"Oh. No, no, Master Scabior. You musn't. Your skin hasn't healed, yet."

Despite Alley's advice, he sat up in bed, looking around to see that he was in his room. "The Mudblood," he inquired.

"In the cellar. Still in a coma."

"A coma?" He questioned.

The elf worried it's hands, not making eye contact. "Alley did his best, Master. But the spell was meant for her, Master. To take her away. The Dark Lord believes Grindelwald attempted to capture her, but your Mark prohibited him once you'd taken hold of her. He is very proud of you, Master."

Scabior couldn't imagine the Dark Lord being proud of anyone. "Why would Grindelwald want her?" He tested.

Alley meet his eyes for a fraction of a second, as though attempting to convey something larger. Scabior thought he understood; Alley knew that the witch was Grindelwald's own, though there was no telling for how long. "Harry Potter's best friend. Who wouldn't?"

"Who, indeed," Scabior looked at his nightstand, overlooking the massive amount of potions there. "How long?"

"Four very long days, Master Scabior. Alley has been tending to you and her as best he can."

He swallowed, reaching for a glass of water and chugging it down. "You've done well, Alley."

Belatedly, he noticed the pink scarf tied around his wrist, and inhaled the floral scent he hadn't smelt in months. The elf did not meet his eye. Neither mentioned how or why it was there.

"Not so well, Master. She is not well."

"I see."

"There are only two nights before the next full moon."

Scabior blinked, waiting for the elf to look at him.

"I...Alley asked around, Sir."

"Right," he swallowed, taking another mouth full to water to relieve his throat and nerves. "Pain relief potion, Alley.

"There is something that needs to be completed."

 

* * *

 

Scabior watched as she slowly awoke, vanishing the adrenaline filled syringe. She blinked repeatedly, gasping after moment, the sound causing him to sit straighter in his seat.

"How long?" He questioned. He could still taste her blood in his mouth. The warmth of her ghosting him much too comfortingly.

She began to cough, throat working to moisten itself.

"Are you thirsty?" He questioned. "Open your mouth."

She did as told, choking when water began to pour from his wand, covering her face carelessly.

"I said: How. Long?"

"Three years."

"Why?"

"Because Dumbledore lied."

He sprayed her with water again. "Everyone lies."

"Please," she begged, her body not yet capable of lifting its arms to protect her. "Stop."

" _Why?_ " He lowered his wand.

"Because the enemy of my enemy is my  _friend_ , Scabior. And there is no warlord I hate more than Dumbledore." Her eyes found his, head turning toward him. "Please, release me."

"You made me into a fool."

"If the Dark Lord knew, I'd be dead and you know it."

"How many of you are there?"

"Surely you're aware of Grindelwald's numbers."

" _Spies._ "

She was quiet for a moment before saying, "Too many to count."

"You turned my own elf against me." He resisted laughing at the ridiculousness of it.

"Well, he's highly intelligent with a loaded moral compass. And he loves you, so," she looked back at the ceiling. "That wasn't difficult."

This time, he laughed aloud. Once he was settled, he said, "You won't do it again."

She began to wiggle in the hold. "I just want this goddamned war to end. I will do what it takes."

He felt a growl bubble out of his throat, eyes landing on the mark at her throat. He wondered if she could feel it. If she realized-

"Release me," she said again.

"It has to work it's way through you."

She froze, body taut against her cot. He continued to wonder if she knew- if she  _understood_  what he meant.

 _I know everything about you, Scabior_. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling her voice in his head. She had to understand.

"Are you still waiting to die?" He questioned, leaning over her.

Her gaze was blank and glassy, looking straight through him. "I'm already dead."

He smirked, wand trailing down her breastbone. "You belong to me, little witch." The sound of her heartbeat filled the cellar, bouncing off the stone walls. "And I say you're very much alive."

**.**

**.**

**.**

Scabior found Draco in the Manor garden later that evening. He was smoking Goblin's Grass from a jade pipe, and the darker wizard resisted the urge to drop kick him. Instead, he pulled his scarf over his hair, ignoring the look Draco gave him.

"You and her, then."

"I don't know what you mean."

"'Ask around,' 'the enemy of my enemy.' Those are particular terms, Malfoy. Things that will get you caught."

"Only if you want to be."

"And, what? You want to be?"

Draco shrugged, inhaling deeply. He studied the sky for a moment, drawing his finger across what Scabior assumed was a constellation. He blew a stream of smoke toward it, emptying his lungs before saying, "I'm following orders, Scabior. Surely you understand that."

Scabior pulled his sleeve up his arm, revealing his Dark Mark. "You know all too well that I do, brother."

Draco positioned his pipe between his lips, rolling his sleeve up his arm to reveal his own Mark. It darkened his pale skin nearly erotically, drawing in Scabior's eyes. But, as Draco held his arm next to his, Scabior realized that there was something wrong with Draco's. It was glamoured.

He looked at the blond with wonder in his eyes. He'd been there when Draco was marked. He'd watched him cry under its power.

"I saw the light. Have you?"

**Author's Note:**

> this fic will additionally be posted on my tumblr, honeyweeds.
> 
> thank you so much for reading ❤️


End file.
